


Wolmeric Week - March 2021

by diligent_cranberry



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Ishgardian Balls, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wolmeric Week, no not that kind, prompts, seriously some of these will give you diabetes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:20:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29702556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diligent_cranberry/pseuds/diligent_cranberry
Summary: A set of prompts for #WolmericWeek.Day 1: FormalDay 2: The FirmamentDay 3: Casual/ModernDay 4: FlowersDay 5: HomeDay 6: FoodDay 7: LoveBonus Prompt: DucklingsRated M to be safe, though anything untoward is mostly implied.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light
Kudos: 30





	1. Prompt 1 - Formal

**Author's Note:**

> A set of prompts for Wolmeric Week, put together by, er, @wolmericweek (I don't have a fandom Twitter so unfortunately cannot link this on there!). These stories will feature my WoL, Milda Highbridge. 
> 
> This first piece takes place a little earlier than the rest of the prompts.

When Milda Highbridge opened the letter penned to her in neat jade-green ink, she realised, with a sinking stomach, that she would have to be _formal_. As much as she had come to love Ishgard, there was no denying that it was a place that demanded stifling formality on far too many occasions. This, a ball hosted by House Dzemael to celebrate the rebuilding of the Arc of the Worthy following its partial destruction, would surely demand the highest level. She had now worn the trusty alpine coat to multiple events that required ingratiating herself to Ishgard's nobility, but something about the way the invite was carefully presented to her on a cushion, and the way that Alphinaud's eyes had shone with anticipation upon reading it, told her that her beloved coat would simply not do on such an occasion. It would require that most uncomfortable of beasts - an Ishgardian formal gown. 

***

By every single one of the Twelve, the strange beings worshipped by the beast tribes, and goodness knows whatever else, Milda could not wait to leave. 

Her gown, couriered over this morning in a velvet bag by an impeccably-dressed servant, was beautiful. There was no name on any of the packaging; Edmont de Fortemps had conspiratorially whispered that it was a gift from a wealthy House, who wished to remain anonymous. Milda had barely concealed a gasp as she slid the dress out of the bag and onto her bed. It looked simply too fragile to be worn by anyone for any length of time, let alone by someone who was more at home in sabatons and mail. It was an intricately-woven concoction of cream silk and beads and, she discovered delightedly, tiny pearls that winked and glittered in the light like the setting sun against the waves. Her first thought was how disastrous it would be if she spilled wine down it; such a dress was not _washed_ , but reverently removed by nimble maidservants and locked away until the next encounter. It was breathtaking. 

...in the literal sense. Gods, it was tight. There would be no need for a brasserie, the Fortemps maid had declared, upon Milda hissing for her assistance in getting it on over her chemise, as it was moulded so tightly to her figure. This, she supposed, was where Ishgardians had their fun; the dress was floor-length and full-sleeved, but the bodice left little to the imagination. Blessedly, the gown had also arrived with a wondrously soft furred stole, which she had wound around herself against the ever-present chill.

As she hovered in the corner of the ballroom, having shaken off the various well-wishers and hand-shakers that plagued her during these sorts of events, that same chill suddenly intensified, straight through her spine and down her shoulders. The Echo twinged at the back of her mind before a warm voice sounded over the music.

"Allow me to say that the Warrior of Light is looking wonderful this evening." And then closer, breath melting against her ear, "money well spent, wouldn't you agree?" 

Milda wheeled around. 

"Gods, I should have known."

Aymeric merely nodded, smiling at her over his glass. 

"I'd have never thought it of you, Lord Commander," she said, conscious of his eyes lingering at the delicious heat creeping up her neck. Leaning closer, she whispered. "I'll bloody kill you. What happened to being discreet?"

"Lady Highbridge," he said, his voice suddenly cool and professional, as though they were merely discussing the buffet. "Can two dear friends not discuss how absolutely enchanting one of them is looking?" 

Milda laughed, though wished she hadn't, because the rigid whalebone at her rib did not share her sense of humour. 

"Thank you, by the way," she added quietly. "The dress - it's gorgeous. It's so beautiful I'd be happy to frame it - if I'm ever able to get out of it." 

"If I hadn't been reminded mere seconds ago to be discreet, I would suggest a hundred ways where that could be arranged." 

Milda raised her eyebrows, though she could not help her mind from frantically constructing each of those scenarios. Aymeric was obviously thinking the same thing; there was a familiar reddening of his ears and across the bridge of his nose, and he bowed and proffered his hand, as though remembering himself.

"Forgive me. We can still dance, surely? Nobody would bat an eyelid at the Lord Commander asking his dear friend, the Saviour of Ishgard, for a dance." 

She felt aether spark in her fingertips as she took his hand, trying with all her might to affect a look of aloof disinterest. She felt ever so slightly giddy as she was led around the dancefloor, and she was fairly certain that, this time, it was not the gown. Her cheeks flushed as she pressed her hand a little tighter into Aymeric's palm than was strictly necessary, all thoughts of discomfort forgotten.


	2. Prompt 2 - The Firmament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 of #WolmericWeek - "The Firmament"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly fluffy dialogue, as that's something I'm trying to work on away from all the drama of my other fics...I just want these two to be happy aaaaah.

"It's marvellous," said Aymeric warmly, looking at the object that had been placed surreptitiously on his desk. "What is it?" 

"It's a cookpot," said Milda, as though the twisted, blackened mass of electrum made this immediately obvious. "It - er - wasn't good enough for the Restoration efforts (something about fire safety), so I decided we could use it for camping." 

"I see." On closer inspection, there were several holes in the bottom. "Where were you thinking of going?" 

"Well, I've heard the Western Highlands are wonderful this time of year." Seeing the look on his face, she laughed. "Only joking. How about the Forelands? We could go undercover. Like before."

Milda prodded aside a stack of papers and perched herself on the end of the desk. Digging into her bag, she drew out a small bundle of cakes wrapped in paper. "Here. It's well past midday and I'm going to bet you've been far too busy to eat."

Aymeric paused, halfway between reaching for his quill. Deciding against it, he took one of the cakes instead. There was a moment of silence as he devoured it; he had completely forgotten how ravenous he was.

"The workmen are dying to see you, you know," continued Milda. "As are the craftspeople. And the stonemasons. Everyone's asking when the Lord Speaker will make an appearance." 

"I am aware," said Aymeric, smiling slightly, removing the last of the iced sugar from his fingers. "Apparently my visage caused a stir during the latest round of congratulatory letters."

"Oh, it did. Francel tells me that morale shoots up after you send them out. Do you really need to attach a portrait every time?" 

Aymeric frowned. "Well, it was Lucia's idea. She said it would bring a touch of familiarity -"

"I'll say. I'm quite certain a few of those letters have ended up framed. Or pasted on walls, or in the back of diaries, or on desks..."

"Well, I'm glad to see they're being put to use rather than littering the Mendicant's Court."

There was a slight lull in conversation as his hands moved automatically towards his quill again, the second cake lying half-eaten. 

"I still have all of mine, actually." 

"Oh?" 

"Of course," she said. "I take them with me when I have to travel. Especially to the First. Alphinaud was very interested in why I'd suddenly replaced his set of bookmarks in my journal with letters. I told him they were just reminders to myself of the _power of hard work through the face of adversity_. Or something."

"And did he seem convinced?"

Milda snorted. "Doubt it. But then he's too polite to push it any further, bless him." She wandered over to the one of the windows, where the construction work was just visible beneath the snowstorm. “I wonder what we’ll do once it’s finished. I won't know what to do with myself. I'll miss going there terribly." 

Aymeric stopped, his quill suspended above the page, wondering if he should reveal what Francel had proposed earlier that morning. The Warrior of Light was, well, the Warrior of Light, but she was still - technically - an adventurer.

"...are you going to finish that cake? I snuck them out of the supplies tent especially, you know." 

Aymeric jumped, then smiled apologetically, making a mental note to inform Francel that, yes, the Warrior of Light would be most agreeable to the spare plot that had been set aside in surprise.


	3. Prompt 3 - Casual/Modern

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NO SHADE TO THE CASUAL COFFER... just the sheer fact that such impeccable drip came out of Ishgard, of all places, will never not be hilarious to me.

When Milda had entered the Lord Speaker's office that afternoon, again weighed down with some food to help him through what was looking to be yet another late night, she was wholly unprepared for the scene laid out before her.

Aymeric was standing in the middle of the room, the large gold outer armour and cloak sitting conspicuously on his desk, smoothing down the front of his shirt. He was also wearing a large, baggy bright orange sports jacket.

"That's...from the Restoration efforts?"

"Well, as a gift for some of the contributors," he said, attempting to view himself through the tiny table mirror. "They have very kindly supplied me with an example, and I'm not at all sure how to take it." 

"I mean…" Milda's brain was still struggling to take in the spectacle. "I suppose it would suit you, if you weren't so very...you. If you know what I mean." 

"I'm afraid I don't." 

"Well, some people just suit that sort of thing. It's very, er, casual, isn't it?" 

Realising, to her horror, that he looked slightly crestfallen, she said quickly, "Look, why don't you try putting the shoulders up?"

"I can't," said Aymeric. "They're sewn down."

"You're joking," Milda moved forward, pulling at the outer fabric. He wasn't. It genuinely was sewn down, preventing the shoulders from functioning anything like an actual jacket. 

"Why," said Aymeric, mystified, "would they design a jacket that doesn't have any shoulders?" 

"I don't know...maybe it's popular outside of Ishgard?"

"And _look,"_ he exclaimed, diving again into the bag. "A single vest...made out of two vests sewn together. _Why_?"

"Perhaps it's to offset the cold shoulders?" 

Still looking utterly confused, Aymeric pulled out a pair of knee-length shorts.

"They look fairly comfortable," he said evenly. "I could wear these under my armour." 

Milda looked at him quickly, to see if this time he was joking. He wasn't. 

"I am also rather partial to this bag. How -?" 

"Across your chest, look, like this…" 

"I see. Is it for travelling?"

"I think," said Milda delicately, fastening it in place, "it's for fashion." 

Finally, he withdrew a pair of shoes, unlike any Milda had ever seen. "Now, I'm not certain _these_ would go under my armour."

"You could wear them on your days off, maybe. Perhaps for that camping trip…?"

"Ah," he smiled, placing them down on the desk. "I see you're not to be dissuaded."

"It'll be good for you, I promise,” said Milda, inspecting one of the shoes, and deciding that the maker probably hadn’t envisioned the pristine white leather going anywhere near the persistent mud of the Forelands. “Nobody will know it's you, or I. To the rest of the world, the Warrior of Light will be in Doma on some important business, and the Lord Speaker will be taking a well-earned break at an undisclosed location." 

Aymeric's eyes moved automatically to the locked door, and then back to Milda. 

"Allow me to speak to Lucia. I’ll see what she can do with my appointments. Fury knows, I feel as though my duties have been catching up with me as of late.” 

“I _may_ have revealed already that you could do with some rest, and she _may_ have suggested to me that she’s already in the process of ensuring you get it,” said Milda. “So you _may_ find a few mysterious empty days in your diary in the next couple of weeks.” 

She couldn’t stop herself from laughing, as Aymeric stood, dumbfounded, half-armoured, still in that oversized jacket.


	4. Prompt 4 - Flowers

"Coerthas used to look like this, you know."

They were at the edge of the Hundred Throes, the sound of the babbling waterfall filling the air. Both were wrapped in thick hooded cloaks; to anyone else they were merely two travellers pausing to enjoy the blooms. The air was still dipped in the chill of the Coerthan mountains behind them, which only strengthened the scent of the surrounding flowers. 

"Before the Calamity?"

Aymeric nodded from his place against the rock. He held a few of the blooms between his long fingers, the petals shimmering against the reflected water and dappled sunlight. Milda moved his hood aside and placed a sprig absent-mindedly in his hair, just above his ear. 

"I would do anything to see it return," he said quietly. "There was nothing more beautiful than seeing the mills turn against the sunlight, amongst the flowers. I never bothered learning the names for them, and I suppose now it's too late. Gone, all of them."

"Coerthas has only ever been snow to me," said Milda. "I found it quite beautiful when I first arrived." 

"I suppose it is, in its own way. I've heard it described as _haunting._ Which is very fitting."

He settled into a more comfortable position, his eyes beginning to soften against the weak dawn light. It was wonderful to see him restful, thought Milda warmly, even if it was only for a day. His lashes cast shadows under the curve of his eye, the blue blush beneath it belaying his almost perpetual state of tiredness. His cheeks, often taut and wan, seemed to be finally returning some colour. 

Milda placed a few other flowers in his hair, not wanting both of them to fall asleep when there were still rogue Bandersnatch prowling about. To her surprise, his sleep only deepened, perhaps aided by her fingers playing with his soft hair as she threaded the flowers through.

Some of the blooms were tiny, with delicate, pearlescent petals like the curve of a baby's ear, some with thick fronds of lightest blue, others gently dipped in silver dew from the early morning. Some were fragrant and heady, effusing into the air as Aymeric opened his eyes and turned his head.

"...are you planning to go into floristry?"

Milda giggled, placing the last of the flowers into his crown.


	5. Prompt 5 - Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone else get desperately, inappropriately emotional at the Dravanian Forelands music? No? Okay.

They had left early, from different locations; he from the Ishgardian Aetheryte and she from Mor Dhona, explaining to the Scions that she would be gone for several days and not to worry. Y’shtola had given Milda one of her knowing looks, which she had ignored, as she did every time their secret fluttered close to the surface. 

As she had done for almost three years now. 

It had been fun, to begin with (well, as fun as it could have been), meeting in secret, after meetings, behind locked doors. It was certainly exciting - exhilarating, even; even for herself, who even by that point had had quite enough excitement to last several lifespans. 

Now the ducking and diving felt, not exactly tiring, but more akin to the dull, predictable trudge of boots against compacted mud. Though, she chastised herself, she ought to be grateful; it was rare that she could wake as she had this morning, her head at the crook of his neck, held as tightly as if she was being carried aloft. Milda had learned quite quickly his tendency to cradle her through sleep and had grown to find it quite comforting, though his larger frame oftentimes meant she was left with just a sliver of bedspace. 

Smiling to herself, she raised her arm, her breath catching as the freezing air danced along it, and placed her hand along the underside of his jaw. She felt something within herself shift; perhaps it was her fingers at his pulse, soft and slow, for once, the crease between his brows lessened, his breathing languid, his shoulders, free of their armour, finally loose. She desisted, afraid to break the spell. She knew once he woke, his sense of duty would begin to encroach, and he would start gently suggesting things like “ _perhaps we ought to return back_ ,” or “ _the Scions would probably be glad to see you home_.” In fairness, she was rather hopeful he’d mention the word ‘home,’ because then she could say something toe-curlingly sweet like, " _home is wherever you are, my darling_ ,” and hopefully pry out an extra day here. 

Milda had once been stuck behind two sweethearts at Costa del Sol when she was supposed to have been acting guard (but had snuck out to watch the fireworks), who had said something exactly along those lines. It had made her stomach churn, and she was certain it was not the pollock pâté she had sampled earlier. 

Most aggravatingly, she had come to realise that - perhaps - the couple had been on to something. Once the initial nerves regarding the Forelands hunters had worn off (Milda had experienced several sleepless nights plagued by visions of them bursting through the tent door before either of them had donned their cloaks), they had settled into something of a routine. Considering they were only supposed to stay three nights, this had happened fairly quickly, between the first quiet lull of dawn and the glorious realisation that, no, there weren’t any pressing issues requiring immediate attention. First a trip to the edge of the river to refill their waterskins, water-aspected to remove any lingering impurities, and then breakfast over the makeshift fire. And then...anything, really. They had roamed the cliffs taking in the beautiful dappled views of the treetops and the stern figure of Anyx Trine in the distance, practised archery and even tried their hand at catching and cooking some of the strange fish that filled the teeming rivers.

However, she did not feel like doing any of that at all. Her own eyes felt heavy, lulled as she was by the low hum of the river, the birdsong and the sigh of the leaves, the chilly air offset by the glowing heat of their entwined figures. 

As the sun crept up the sky, a group of hunters paused at the reflection of a small tent glittering on the water’s reflection. As it was well out of the way of their quarry, inconspicuously tucked away under the bower of an oak tree, they lowered their bows, unbeknownst that the Warrior of Light, and now of Darkness, the Saviour of Ishgard, Hydaelyn’s Chosen, Slayer of Gods and Eikons, lay dreaming, the warmth of her lover having finally coaxed her back into slumber.


	6. Prompt 6 - Food

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one takes place fairly soon after the first prompt, 'Formal.' I suppose it’s a Starlight meal? Not THE Starlight meal, though (that’s with the Scions at House Fortemps).

For perhaps the first time in his life, Aymeric felt a deep sense of gratitude towards House Dzemael. It had been their ball that had allowed him to make one of his rare dips into House Borel’s coffers (marking it wryly as _personal expenses_ on his ledger), and the results - despite the difficulty in removing them - had been magnificent. 

Now, several weeks later, he was sat enjoying what had been described in his invitation as _an_ _opportunity to discuss the ongoing Garlean threat,_ but which they both knew to be code for an uninterrupted dinner. Most auspiciously, his retainer had taken leave early that afternoon, and François the cat had been relegated to the sitting room with a box of fabric mice. 

The Warrior of Light sat across from him, in one of her own gowns this time, fern-coloured velvet that contrasted handsomely against her auburn hair. Although she had fast settled into Ishgardian culture, there were still some aspects that inspired no small amount of suspicion. The first, was the food. 

"You say there's _raw egg_ in this?" 

Aymeric looked up from his own plate, to see Milda staring in horror into her cup. 

"Certainly. I assure you, you can't taste it all that much. Is eggnog rare across the rest of Eorzea?" 

"No, of course not…" she trailed off. "I assumed it was just a name. I didn't realise it would have actual eggs in it." 

It was rather amusing to see the Warrior of Light, slayer of primals, eikons and countless Dravanians, save her concern for a traditional Starlight drink. 

"Please don't feel you have to drink it; I've got plenty of wine. Or coffee, if you'd prefer -" 

She shook her head. “No. I’ll try it.” 

She inhaled as though steeling herself, and then took a large sip. Silence. Milda stared back into the cup, running her tongue along her lower lip experimentally, as though still trying to decide. She raised her eyes just quickly enough to catch Aymeric’s own, darkened and following the trace of her finger as she removed the last speck of froth. 

She giggled, placed her cup down and said quickly, "I can't believe you cooked this all by yourself."

"Oh? It’s nothing, really. It didn't take long at all.”

Aymeric smiled, remembering rising at dawn to prepare the eggnog, mix the chestnut stuffing and stuff the eft-tail. 

“Every time I’ve ever tried to roast anything, it’s gone horribly wrong,” said Milda, placing a piece of eft delicately into her mouth, in a manner that Aymeric could tell she had adopted from the table of House Fortemps. 

"I would be honoured to eat anything prepared by the Warrior of Light herself."

"You say that, but you haven't actually eaten anything prepared by the Warrior of Light," said Milda. "I'm not a very good cook, unfortunately." 

"I'm sure that if she's as good as cooking as she is at deflecting, it will be well worth it." 

"I can _maybe_ boil an egg,” she mused. “Under the right circumstances."

"Full glad am I to hear that. I was just considering how to use up the leftover eggs come the morning." 

Milda smiled, a warm and wonderful flush creeping up her face. "Is this your way of requesting breakfast in bed?" 

"Certainly not. For what I have planned this evening -” he smiled, placing his hands beneath his chin, in a gesture that he knew inspired equal amounts of avarice and trepidation within her “- I will be extremely impressed if you rise before noon."


	7. Prompt 7 - Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's soppy Sunday, it seems. Incredibly fluffy - please take precautions.

"Love you," Milda had murmured, halfway between sleep and wakefulness, feeling a gentle kiss against the side of her nose. And then she'd promptly fallen back asleep. 

Now fully awake and with a steaming mug of tea, she settled herself in the large bay windows of Borel Manor with a book, on one of her very rare, very coveted, days off. The book was borrowed from Urianger, and initially she worried it might be rather complicated, though luckily it had turned out to be a collection of short romance stories. Although Milda was not really one for romance novels, the ones she _had_ read all featured an anguished declaration, usually on a balcony or after some ball or other. One of them even featured a confession on a sweltering summer field following a battle (to this, Milda could only think of the smell). This tome was no exception; as predicted, in the first story the heroine screamed it from the window of her castle as her beloved had trundled away in the back of a cart to his demise. Milda smiled, imagining herself in that situation; every time she did it always involved several scandalised Vault priests fainting in shock. 

In truth, there were many, many ways they had shared those three words.

There had been the first time she'd actually heard it, almost uttered too low and too gently for her ears to pick it up, halfway through an embrace, as they were saying their goodbyes from a stolen moment at Falcon's Nest. It was almost a sigh, as though speaking it to himself more than her. He had froze, not realising what he'd said aloud, or that she had heard. She had simply held on to him even tighter, not knowing what to say, though feeling it burn in her chest all the same, hoping he could interpret her embrace correctly.

Another, when she had awoken after the battle at Ghimlyt, exhaustion raking against every nerve, feeling worse than she had ever felt as the room swam into view. He had tried to be the consummate Lord Speaker, his voice strained as he relayed the news of the Scions, attempting to preempt her panic by explaining gently, at length and in detail, what had happened. And she had reached forward for his hands and broke through the illusion, suddenly sobbing into his shoulder.

Or, perhaps, when they had experienced one of their rare arguments (she couldn't even remember its exact origin, something about whether or not a particular course of action against the Ixal was too great a risk), and it had dawned on her, once her anger had calmed, that the reason for this sudden eruption had been out of concern for _him_ and not the irritation with Ishgard's distended military system that she had originally thought. Aymeric had been very magnanimous, and she had not, to her shame. They had laughed about it afterwards, as Milda, instead of apologising, had appeared sulkily at the Congregation at a quarter to midnight with a tray of tea and cakes. 

And other ways, whispered, prayed into her neck, her shoulders, against her sweat-soaked hair. Ways such as the early hours of this morning, which, despite its fervour, had not prevented him rising at an unseemly early hour to see to some work. Milda yawned; he was perhaps the only person in Eorzea that made her feel lazy in comparison.

A strange thing, this feeling was. If it was anything else, for anything else, it would be madness. Like tempering, almost. A devotion so strong that one's own instinct for self-preservation melted away. Though as the bells ticked by, as she sat by the chilly window, peeking past the curtain as the figures below swirled about the snowy grounds, her mulled tea in one hand, the other cradling her book, the memory of the previous night flooding her chest with warmth, perhaps, just this once, she did not mind being tempered in the slightest.


	8. BONUS Prompt - Ducklings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FORGOT ABOUT THE BONUS DAY GOODNESS ME, so this may be a little rough.

" _Look_ ," hissed a voice.

Aymeric blinked awake. The sun was beginning to set, casting shafts of amber and gold through the trees. The remnants of their last meal lay spread out on the blanket, and Milda was tugging at his sleeve, gesturing towards the river.

There were seven fat little ducklings following their mother as she glided through the water. She was extremely graceful, as far as ducks go, thought Aymeric, with a long, elegant tawny neck held haughtily above her ruffled feathers. The ducklings were the exact opposite; each was as round as Knight's bread, their heads flicking around as they bobbed up and down in the river's flow. 

"You woke me," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes, "to look at some ducks?" Milda looked momentarily worried, until she noticed he was smiling. She grinned back apologetically. 

There was a rustling noise, and the pad of something large and heavy against the mud. Emerging from the undergrowth in a cloud of condensation was a bandersnatch, its large shaggy head lifted as it sniffed curiously at the cold air. It was quite a few yalms away (and on the other side of the river), though Aymeric could not help his hand drifting towards his quiver and bow. It was a powerful beast, probably unrivalled in its territory except for the Dravanians, its dull eyes moving up and down the length of the river, its reddish pelt providing perfect camouflage amongst the leaves and dappled panes of light. 

"It won't come near us," said Milda matter-of-factly, "it's only having a drink." 

Aymeric narrowed his eyes; whilst the bandersnatch _was_ lapping at the water's edge with a large tongue, its eyes had fallen upon the line of ducks, who were drifting serenely past. There was a stiffening along its spine that Aymeric had observed from dogs spotting a stray squirrel, cats with mice, or even from his youth, when he happened upon a wyvern lying in wait for a particularly fat steinbok. 

The mother duck seemed to sense this; her tail twitched and her pace increased. Her ducklings, their legs not quite as adapted to the water as her own, began to trail behind.

The bandersnatch stopped drinking, its shoulders tense, growing as still as one of the boulders that littered the riverside.

"What're you -" Milda barely had time to scramble out of the way as Aymeric rose and fired a warning shot towards the bandersnatch. The arrow formed a graceful arc before sticking fast to the ground ilms away from one of its scarred paws. The bandersnatch snarled, and then, as if reconsidering (though still determined to have the last word), gave a great growl and stalked off. 

The duck turned her head towards them both in a manner that had Aymeric been younger - or more fanciful, or perhaps still hazy with sleep - he would have interpreted as a _thank you._ The last of the ducklings caught up, huddling around their mother's rear, a few small, panicked quacks drifting up from the water. 

"Thank the gods," muttered Milda. "Do you think they're -" she stopped. " _Don't_ tell me you're going back to sleep?"

"I won't," he yawned, propping himself back up against the boulder, "though I'm afraid that would be a lie." 


End file.
